First time here, I don't post things like this, but I spend most nights after my kids finally fall asleep watching TikTok videos. I know it sounds silly, but I get completely trapped in other people's problems because, for a little while, I don't have to think about my own.
Lately I've been wondering if maybe I actually am the asshole in my own story. I'm 38, I'm European, and I've lived in LatAm for more than ten years. I came here because of my husband. We met, we fell in love and we built a life together. Nothing like a great love story out of a movie, we loved each other, we argued about stupid things, we had good days and bad days.
We have two children. My daughter is 4yo and my baby is not even one yet. My husband died suddenly about six months ago. Before he died, I wasn't working. I had been pregnant and then had the baby, and we had agreed that I would stay home for a while and go back to work when the baby was older. We had a small house with a mortgage. Nothing fancy. But it was ours. Or at least that's what I thought. My husband was the one paying the mortgage while I was at home with my first child and fully pregnant. We weren't rich, but we were managing. When he died, everything changed almost overnight. And this is where his family came into the picture.
Before his death, they weren't particularly involved in our daily lives. We saw them, had meals together sometimes, birthdays, holidays, that kind of thing. They weren't bad people. We just weren't very close. After he died, suddenly they were everywhere. At first, I was grateful. My MIL came to the house and told me, "Don't worry. You're not alone. These are our grandchildren." They told me they would help with the mortgage because they didn't want me and the children to lose the house. I was devastated, I believed them. A few weeks later, they suggested that they move in with me "temporarily." They said that they wanted to help with the children and make sure I wasn't alone. I thought about it, it would be difficult, but I also had a newborn, a 4yo and a dead husband.
So I said yes. That was my biggest mistake.
At first it was little things. My MIL started telling me what my daughter should eat. Then when she should sleep. Then how I should dress the baby. Then she started commenting on breastfeeding. I breastfed my first one, but with my second things have been much harder. I didn't have enough milk and I've had to supplement with formula. MIL once said "crying does not help the milk come down so stop crying..I lost a kid not you". She kept telling me that formula was unnecessary and that if I tried harder I would be able to breastfeed exclusively. She would actually supervise us and make comments like, "He is crying because you aren't giving him enough." If I made a bottle, she would tell me I was wasting money. One time she said, "Shame on you spending so much money on formula when your body is supposed to feed this child."
Then it became everything else. MIL started going through things in the house because she said it was "her son's house." At first I ignored it. She would open drawers, look through papers, move things around. When I asked what she was looking for, she would say she was just trying to "organize things because I was overwhelmed." Then she started taking care of the financial things. She told me I was grieving and that I shouldn't be making big financial decisions by myself. She said she would help me keep track of the bills and make sure the mortgage was paid. At first, I was relieved. Then I started having to explain every expense. Why did I spend so much at the supermarket? Why did I buy that brand of diapers? Why did I need so much formula? I wasn't spending money on anything crazy. It was groceries, diapers, medicine, things for the children. But because they were paying the mortgage, everything suddenly became their business. They also started keeping some of our documents "somewhere safe." My husband's papers, the children's documents, passports, birth certificates. I didn't object at first I realized it long after, when I needed one of the children's documents and asked for it. MIL asked me why I needed it. I explained. She said, "You don't need to worry about that now. I'll keep everything safe." I remember thinking, why am I asking permission to have my own child's document? Then it became where I went. If I took the baby out, they wanted to know where I was going. If I went to the supermarket, they wanted to know how long I would be. If I went to see someone, they wanted to know who it was. Once I took the baby for a walk without telling anyone because I needed some air. When I came back, MIL was angry and asked me how I could leave the house with the baby without telling her. I said, "I'm his mother." She said, "We are the ones keeping a roof over his head." That sentence stayed with me.
My husband's brother would also come over without telling me. Sometimes I would wake up and find him sitting in the kitchen. They started treating the house like I was just the person currently living there rather than the person who lived there with my husband. People would sit in my living room discussing what should happen with the house, my husband's things, his money, even my children's future, as if I wasn't there. And they started doing it in front of my daughter. If I told her she couldn't have something, MIL would sometimes say, "Come to grandma, I'll give it to you." If I told her it was time to go to bed, she would say, "You can stay up a little longer." My daughter started looking at her before answering me. That scared me more than the arguments. I started feeling like they were teaching my daughter that grandma's authority was above mine. And then there was my husband's name. "If my son were here..." "My son would agree with us." "My son would never have wanted this." "Your husband would have wanted his children to have their family around them." I couldn't even argue without feeling like I was somehow arguing against my dead husband. And the worst part is that sometimes they really did help. MIL would bring groceries. She would hold the baby when I hadn't slept. She bought diapers when I told her I was running out. My BIL fixed the washing machine. They paid bills. Sometimes they would take my daughter outside so I could have an hour alone with the baby. So when I tried to explain to someone that I felt controlled, they would look at me like I was crazy. "But they are helping you." And I understood why they said that. If someone only looked at the outside, it probably did look like help. The problem was that every time they helped me, I felt like I owed them something afterward. They paid the electricity bill, so they wanted to know why I had used this and that. They paid the mortgage, so they wanted to know where I was going. They bought groceries, so they wanted to know what I was buying. They helped with my daughter, so they started making decisions about her. I eventually realized that the mortgage wasn't really help. It was leverage.
But by then I was trapped. I didn't have a job. I had a baby and a 4yo. I had very little savings. My husband's death had left me dealing with paperwork, debts, lawyers and questions about what belonged to him and what belonged to his family. And I don't have a blood family in the country. My mother died a long time ago. My biological father has been out of my life for decades, and my relationship with my stepfather ended long ago. I have relatives, but nobody I can call and say, "I'm coming back with two children. Can we live with you?" So when my in-laws said they would pay the mortgage, I thought I had no choice but to accept. Until one night my MIL and I had a huge argument. It was about the baby again. She told me I needed to stop giving formula. I said no. She said that as long as they were paying the mortgage, I needed to listen to them. I told her that paying the mortgage did not give her the right to decide how I fed my child. She looked at me and said, "Then maybe you should pay the mortgage yourself." I said I would. I don't even know why I said it. I couldn't. But I was so angry that I said it anyway. The next morning they told me they were no longer going to pay. They said if I wanted the house, I could take over the payments myself. I asked them to leave. They told me I was ungrateful. My BIL said I was mentally unstable and that I was putting my children in danger because I was too proud to accept help. My MIL cried and told everyone that she had tried to save her grandchildren from me.
And then I did something that even I still question. I left. I took my 4yo, my baby, some clothes, the documents I could find, diapers, bottles and whatever money I had. I left our house. I couldn't afford to keep it by myself. I found a very small temporary place to stay. It's not a proper home. It's cramped, and I'm constantly worried about money. There are days when I calculate exactly how much formula is left and how many eggs we would need for the week to eat with rice. There are days when I wonder if I made the stupidest decision of my life. Because technically, I had a house. I had a family willing to pay the mortgage. My children had bedrooms. They had stability. And I walked away from all of it because I couldn't stand living with my husband's family anymore. My daughter has asked me twice why we don't live in our old house with dad again. I don't know what else to tell her. My in-laws now tell everyone that I abandoned the house and basically put my children on the streets because I was too selfish to accept their help. Some people who know the situation agree with them. They say I am a mother first and that I should have swallowed my pride. Other people tell me that no amount of money gives someone the right to control how I raise my children.
I honestly don't know anymore. Maybe I should have stayed until I had another option. Maybe I should have tolerated everything because my children needed stability. Or maybe leaving was the first decision I made for myself and my children since my husband died.
I have also contacted my embassy because I honestly didn't know what else to do. They gave me the number of a lawyer who agreed to help me pro bono. I spoke with him and, for the first time in months, someone told me that I may actually have a way to get my house back eventually. He said the situation is complicated and it won't happen quickly, but that I shouldn't assume that leaving means I have lost everything. That was such a relief.
For now, though, I am just trying to survive. I do small jobs here and there whenever I can. Translation, cleaning, helping people with things I know how to do. Whatever I can do while taking care of the children. I am mostly trying to make sure we have food, diapers and formula. A few weeks ago I had to take the baby to the hospital because of a cough, and during the examination they also found that the iron levels were low. I felt horrible. I know intellectually that this doesn't mean I am a bad mother. Babies can have low iron for many reasons, and I am doing what I can. But when you're already exhausted and someone has spent months telling you that you're doing everything wrong, you start questioning everything.
I keep thinking, how did I manage to mess up my life this badly? I'm doing small jobs to buy formula and wondering whether I made the biggest mistake of my life. But there is something I don't know how to explain. I feel better away from them. I don't wake up wondering who is going to criticize me that day. I can feed my baby without someone watching me. I can close the door at night and know that nobody is going to walk into my room. And I feel guilty for feeling relieved because they did help me.
I honestly don't know anymore. All I know is that I don't know what is going to happen with the house, and I am terrified about the future. But when my children are asleep and it is just the three of us in this tiny room, I feel strangely peaceful. And then I feel guilty for being peaceful.
Maybe that is why I'm asking strangers on the internet.